


Tormented

by BoxWineConfessions



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dry Humping, F/M, Foot Jobs, Incest, Oral Sex, PWP, Pegging, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnancy Scare, Pussy Job, Sibling Incest, Virginity, Virginity Kink, dubcon, mutually abusive relationship, rough anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-10-10 18:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10444308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: “Mickey, please,” and he’d expected her to say, “please no,” or “please don’t.” He’d never want to hurt her, and so it would end there. He’d let go of his crushing grasp around her wrist, and hole up in his room until it all blew over, and they pretended that it never happened. Instead he’s shocked when she hikes her robe up, presents him with supple and unclothed skin, and knocks most of her makeup to the floor. The crystal bottle of rose scented bubble bath clatters against the bathroom tiles, and shatters. The whole room smells overwhelmingly of roses.  “Mickey, I won’t ask again."Or, Sara and Michele take their disastrous relationship to the next destructive level.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voslen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voslen/gifts), [Phayte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phayte/gifts).



> Someone pls pour some holy water on me.

“Mickey,” he can see her in her pink lace nightie. She’s standing on her tip toes at the kitchen counter trying to reach up to the top shelf for her favorite tea mug. As she rocks on her tip toes the nightie creeps higher, up over the crest of her hips, and he can see pristine white panties beneath. “Mickey.” She locks eyes with him and smiles. Her smooth bare legs go on for miles.

“Mickey,” Sara’s voice pulls him from an uneasy slumber. Mickey’s first reaction is to kick off the thick fleece blanket he’d been sleeping under. He’s hot and damp with sweat. However, a familiar heat and pressure between his legs force him at the last minute to stay under the blanket. What would he do if Sara see his shame? “Scoot over.”

“What?” His voice is husky and the words burn in the back of his throat as he chokes out, “Why?”

“I had a bad dream.”

“I don’t think that’s the best-” but before he can finish the statement, she’s peeling the blanket back and crawling in bed beside him.

It’s pitch black in his room, even with city lights from outside streaming in through the window, it’s impossible to see much of anything. Instead Mickey feels. He feels the silky feeling of Sara’s pajamas against his clothing and skin. Maybe she’s wearing the yellow set. The one that has the little shorts that show her long legs and the short sleeve top that hides her figure and hangs loosely around her slim waist.

He feels the slow rise and fall of her chest. Where his breathing is deep and ragged, as if he’d been at practice, her breaths are even and relaxed. He feels her press up against him, and when he tries to crawl away from her toward the other side of the mattress she follows. Slowly they slide across the entirety of the bed until he’s up against the wall, and there’s nowhere else to go.

He feels her grind up against him, unapologetically. She works the cleft of her ass against his cock which is very hard and very grateful for the attention. “You sounded like you weren’t having the best dream either Mickey.” Surely she has to be able to feel that. Surely, she has to be repulsed by how he’s no different than any other man that lusts after her. Yet, she continues. Unrelentingly, she pushes against him.

It takes every ounce of control that he has to not slip his pants up over the waistband of his shorts and envelop his cock in the smooth silken material of her shorts.

“Sara,” He breathes into her ear. She smells like the rose scented bubble bath that comes in a pink crystal bottle and she keeps next to her makeup bag at the vanity in her bathroom. She catches his hand that hovers over her hips and wraps it around the front of her body.

“Mickey,” she mashes his hand into the soft flesh of her breast while she continues to grind against him. “It was such an awful dream Mickey. Someone had stolen you away from me. I kept searching and searching for you, but there was nothing.”

“It’s alright Sara.” He’d wanted the words to come out confident and strong, but it’s impossible to do so when she’s doing everything in her power to lead to his undoing. “I’m here.”

She shoves his hand down the collar of her shirt. Several buttons must have been undone because the neckline plunges down low and allows him access to her bare chest. How can skin be so impossibly soft, but firm?

“Brother,” she whines, and that’s it. He’s done. Any desire he had to prolong this moment is gone, and he’s coming into his shorts without so much as touching his cock to bare skin.

For a long time, there’s nothing but the sound of their breath between them. Uneven gasps slow down, even out, and become calm once again. The damp spot on his pants grows cold and tacky, but he dare not move. He's paralyzed in fear that the slightest action will snap Sara out of whatever trance that she’s in and make her realize what she’s done.

“Mickey,” she speaks again. She grabs his hand once more and lets it rest at the elastic waistband of her shorts. He wants to run his hand over every silky inch of clothed skin before peeling them away slowly. He dare not. “You’re disgusting.”

Sara pulls down the band of her shorts on instinct Mickey pulls his hand away. “Do I have tell you how to do everything Mickey?” Earlier she said what they both seemed to implicitly feel. He was disgusting. But there’s no malice in her voice now.  Instead it’s bright, and almost playful. “Make me feel good.”

“Sara?” His mouth goes dry, and the blood in his veins turns to ice. There’s still plausible deniability if they just left it as it was. Sara was sleep walking. Mickey was woken from a dead sleep, and the outcome was not ideal.

But the idea of being able to actively touch Sara where no other man had touched her before. There would be no going back. Once he had her, the thought that threatened to consume him each and every day eventually would like a roaring inferno. She’d have no other after this.

“I just want to know. Know for sure that you’re here with me and that you love me.”

Sara’s folds were warm and wet. Michele parts those folds and touches lightly at her clit. It’s amazing how something so small can be so sensitive. She mewls against his shoulder and rocks against even the softest touch of his hand. He’d love, so much to spread her legs wide and taste how sweet she was.

A tinge of uncertainty tugs at the corner of Michele’s mouth. What should he do? Should he simply touch her as instructed, or should he try to drown himself in Sara? It’s so tempting to drink his fill in fear that she’d never allow him access to her body again.

She giggles at him. In the darkness, he can’t quite see her face, but from the acidic sound alone he knows she’s smirking at him. “That’s how you finger a girl?”

He works a single digit inside, and this is by far the best yet. Sara clenches and relaxes around his fingers. She was impossibly tight. Virgin tight, and all for him. He adds a second finger and crooks them slightly. Sara really seems to like that. So he rubs in slow, delicate circles as to not overstimulate his sister, over and over and over again. She squeezes tight around him, her sharp nails dig into the flesh of his arm, and her hips rise from the bed.

“Oh, Mickey,” she says in a breathy, and dare he say satisfied moan.

When it’s done she reaches around around blindly in the dark for her shorts, and leaves without a word. In the morning, Michele awakes to a mess on his skin. The sheets are twisted and pulled off the corner of the mattress. It would be so easy to believe that every second of it was a dream, if it weren’t for the few stray strands of long black hair across his pillow.

* * *

 

“If you medal in Moscow, I’ll let you have a reward.”

Michele medals in Moscow, but only after Sara tears out his heart and stomps on it repeatedly. “You hurt me.” Michele confesses after the medal ceremony when they’re back in the hotel room.

“You won didn’t you?” Her tone is dry and disinterested. She plucks several garments from her suitcase. “Isn’t that enough?”

The answer, Michele decides, is no. Winning means nothing if Sara isn’t at his side. If he can’t have her, then all of this is worthless. “What’s my reward?” Michele asks after Sara emerges from the shower, and she’s wearing the hotel issue terrycloth robe, and a comically oversized bath towel on top of her head.

“Oh,” Sarah’s jaw goes slack, as if she’d forgotten that promise. “I suppose that you can eat me out. Would you like that Mickey?”

Michele can barely find the strength or the coherence to nod yes in response. He would very much. He’s dreamed of it on every tormented night since Sara came into his room. Before his desires were always abstract. Sara in states of undress, or Sara asking him vague questions like, “does it feel good?” Now his fantasies have specific sequences, consequences, and resolutions.

Michele knows that the real thing is going to be infinitely better than his own limited fantasies. In his dreams he imagines Sara tasting like summer rose tea. In reality he knows that it’s better than anything he’s ever imagined.

Sara discards the damp towel around her head. Her soaked hair clings to her skin. 

  
Michele guides Sara down on to the bed as gently as he can. The bedspread is white, and her robe is white, and he finds it very appropriate for his sister. She trusts no one as much as she trusts him. Whatever anger and distrust that could’ve been building between them over the course of the Grand Prix Final is gone. Mickey feels nothing but love and warmth.

The robe is knotted tightly at her waist with a belt, and he tries to undo it.

Sara slaps his hands away. “I said you could eat me out. I didn’t say you could eat your fill.”

Wordlessly, he parts the robe and settles between her legs. Michele stops to stare in wonder at the soft trimmed hair on her mound. It’s soft, and when he buries his face in the hair it smells like roses. Next, he repeats the action and buries his face in the juncture where her thigh met her body. Gone was the scent of sweat, and salt, and ice rink that she might’ve had moments before. In it’s place was only the clean smell of soap. He brought the bubble bath with her all the way from their little flat in Turin.

“Sara,” he moans into her thigh. This is too good. What would she have let him done if he’d won the gold? Would she reciprocate in kind? Sara’s voice is like an angel, and her lips are soft and delicate. They’d feel so good wrapped around his cock. Would she let him take her virginity? The idea is very dangerous, and makes him unappreciative of the present. Michele wills it from his mind and focuses on nothing but Sara, damp and inviting before him.

Carefully, he kisses down the inside of her thigh. He spreads her hips wide, and gasps. He’s never seen Sara this way. She glistens with moisture, and every inch of her tan skin looks as if it were made to be kissed, and lapped at, and sucked.

Sara tastes as good as she looks. She’s so sweet, and so wet, and so wonderful. She makes the best little noises when he nibbles at her clit, or sucks at it lightly with just enough pressure to make her rise off of the bed, and push his face closer to her.

“Mickey,” she moans. He wants her to say his name like that always. Like it’s the only word on her mind, and the only thing in her heart. Like she needs him as much as he needs her. “I need more.”

Mickey tends to her clit with his mouth, and inserts one finger, and then another. Sara said he wouldn’t be allowed to have his fill, but she’s wrong. He gorges himself on her, and continues to lap and nip at her folds, even when her hips shake and he tongues her through the orgasm. He doesn’t stop until her eyes are pricked with tears from over stimulation, and she’s pushing at his forehead, “Mickey, please. It hurts.”

“But it was good right?” he asks when he pulls away.

“So good Mickey. You were so good tonight.”

* * *

 

Nothing happens between them again for a few weeks. It’s easy to slip back into that comforting interdependent normalcy that exists between them. They do on ice training together in the morning, and off ice training together in the evening. In the afternoons they go to class.

One evening, they’re both seated on opposite ends of the impossibly long sofa. The cream colored cushions are overstuffed, and you sink into them so deeply that it’s difficult to climb back out after a long rest. It’s great to take a nap on, but awful for sitting and watching television with your sister. Sara might as well be in the next room she’s so far away. He can’t feel her body heat, can’t brush against her when he shifts to get comfortable on the couch. Michele decides that he hates the sofa, and wants to buy a new one as soon as he has a little extra money.

Sara’s got them watching some awful prime time drama. She doesn’t particularly like it, but he’d wanted to watch the World Cup qualifying game, Italy vs Albania. Sara won’t relinquish the remote. She loathes it when he watches football.

Michele will admit that he can get out of hand. He’ll cheer loudly at the screen, and stand at shout when things don’t go well. He also knows that Sara doesn’t want him to watch because the attention will be diverted away from her, and so her jealousy makes it all worthwhile.

The program goes to commercial, and a long bare slender leg creeps across the couch and into his lap. Beautiful little toes creep across his leg and rest on his crotch.

Michele immediately feels the blood in his body rush south. It’s not fair, that she can do something so simple and it can have such a great effect on him. She shouldn’t be able to torment him this way. It’s simply not fair. “Mickey,” her voice is honey sweet and just as viscous. “You can put on the game. I can go read in my room.”

Mickey understands immediately that she wants him to choose, her or the game. There’s no choice. It’s her every single time. “No,” he says with certainty. “I don’t mind this.” Slowly she works the ball of her foot over his rapidly hardening cock.

“Good. Although-” she draws her eyebrows together and in slight frustration. “It is a little boring. We should do something.” She takes the head of his cock against her toes and pinches it slightly.

“Ah,” it doesn’t hurt, so much as take him by surprise. She repeats the motion, and pinches him over and over and over again, eliciting the same staccato gasps of, “Ah, ah, ah,” each and every time. “Sara,” he pleads simply. She’s done it so many times and in rapid succession, it does hurt now. His cock is still clothed beneath his sweats, but he can only assume that the tip is rubbed red and raw from the pressure. “Please.”

“Please what?” she laughs, and smiles at him. It’s so warm, and it’s so genuine. He knew that Sara couldn’t be that cruel to him. She loves him. “Stop?”

“No!” he says too quickly. If he’s too eager she might deny him.

Sara rolls her eyes at him, as if she’s tired of his whining. He’s lucky, and he needs to thank god for whatever it is she’s about to do to him. “Take those off,” she gestures to his pants.

Michele peels them away, and tries to move along the edge of the cushions closer to Sara. “Ah-ah,” she wags a finger at him. “You’re staying there. I’m staying here.” She reassumes the previous position, with her feet in his lap. She balances him precariously between both of her feet. He’s pinched with one set of toes, while she runs her other foot across his length.

Then, she finds a rhythm. She slides him between both of her feet in a fluid motion. The pressure is stronger than the other night when she simply ground against him, but still far lighter than the touch he uses on himself.

Michele looks to her, hopes to find an answer in this sudden display of affection in her kind violet eyes. There’s none. She simply reaches for the remote, and begins to click through the channels. Her face is flat, almost listless like when their flights have been delayed, and she really just needs a good night's rest.

Despite her look of bland disinterest, she keeps jerking him off. Much like the rest of her, her feet are so impossibly soft. He often gets lace bite, and blisters from practice, but Sara takes great care to check her skates, and alternate with enough off ice training, and apply soothing salves every night before bed so that her feet stay soft and supple. He’d very much like to take each one into his mouth and lap and kiss at them.

“A cooking show. You should watch this and learn something Mickey.” With each stroke, he can feel the heat and the tension within his body coil tightly. “She’s making crepes. Learn to make those for me.” He can feel the flutter across his skin and in his pulse, and in no time at all he’s staining her beautiful feet. He’s dirty and disgusting and no better than any other man that tries to have his way with her.

“Gross,” she maneuvers her feet once more, and wipes each foot off on the sleeve of his shirt. “Anyway, I’m going to do some shopping with Stef and Mary. Don’t wait up for me. We might go see a movie too.”

Michele draws his brows tight and clenches his jaw. Mary and Stefano were a pair of ice dancers who were married, but claimed to have an “open” relationship. Michele disproved of any man who could not control his urges and find satisfaction in one woman. Stefano wanted Sara, and Mary said she was bisexual. He didn’t trust them with Sara. “I want to come with you. I need some new shirts.”

“No Mickey, I don’t think so.”

* * *

 

Sara came home that night with a new cocktail dress, a bracelet in a little blue box from Tiffany and Co., and a Merlot covered bruise on her neck. “Sara? What is that?”

“What’s what?” She blinks at him once, twice, three times in slow deliberate movements that reveal and hide wide violet eyes over and over again. Her hand flutters to the bruise at the exact same time she responds. “Oh, Mickey,” her eyes flutter closed and her face flushes red. “His cock was so big. Bigger than yours.”

“What? Sarah how could you?”

“Oh, I get it.” She laughs again. “I should only fuck you.”

“Yes!” Mickey whines. “I mean.”

“I should only fuck you, little brother?” Sara repeats herself.

Michele feels his gut twist like a damp rag being wrung out. There’s the tight burn of anger, and jealousy, and the pinch at his heart of rage. Among the numerous emotions that he feels right now, guilt or shame are not among them.

Sara is his, and someday he’ll be a worthy enough man to claim his prize.

Michele has to fight back the bile that rises in his throat with each syllable that he stutters and chokes “I love you,” because if he starts crying he knows that Sara will laugh at him.

“Mickey,” her voice doesn’t crack, nor does it sound rehearsed or forced. Her tone is naturally barbed and laced with venom as she speaks. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear to you.” She grabs him by the wrist and holds on tightly. She leads them into his bedroom and pushes him down onto the bed.

Her movements are rapid and deft. Her hands are at his pants, and she undoes his belt. His pants are pulled down around his knees, and she rips her underwear off and lifts her sun dress up.

She wraps a long elegant hand around his cock and gives him strokes that are just enough pressure, and just enough speed. It’s the first time she’s ever touched him with her hands, and it’s wonderful. Michele had no idea that hands could feel so good.

The attention is short lived. No sooner than he’s hard and thrusting into her hand eagerly, she mounts him. Michele is immediately enveloped in warmth and in wetness, but the maiden like tightness that he’d imagined was shockingly absent.

It was then that he realized that Sara hadn’t sunk down on his cock as he’d initially thought. Only wrapped her beautiful lips around him as a close, but underwhelming substitute. She worked his cock as if it were the real thing, and if he closed his eyes and imagined he really would believe that he was buried deep inside.

“I will never actually fuck you.”

Michele knows that the words are supposed to hurt. They’re supposed to burn and to sting, and to destroy the new intimacy between them that began when Sara came to him in his bed in the middle of the night, but they accomplish none of that.

Michelle grabs her roughly by the hips and drags her body against his cock until he’s coming onto his stomach. He’s coming again because of Sara for the second time that day. Surely she’s made him come more times than Stefano.

Surely.

* * *

 

Michele has thought about it all night, and all the next day. He’s seen Sara’s phone light up with calls, texts, and snaps from Stefano. He decided a few weeks ago when Sara came into his room that once they moved forward, there was no going back. Sara wouldn’t have another man after she had him.

But that was part of the problem. Her words from the other night burn in the back of his mind and brand themselves onto his skull so that he sees them when he closes his eyes tight. “I will never actually fuck you.”

He could show Sara that she was wrong. That he was worth having, and worth desiring, and although no man would ever be worthy of her, there certainly was no one other than him that could satisfy her.

Sara sits at the vanity in her bathroom. It has a long mirror with several soft colored light bulbs at the top. Across the rose colored counter, the contents of her makeup bag have been spilled out. She’s dressed in her robe, the one that’s a deep shade of purple and made of satin. It clings to her still damp skin, as she tries to decide which shade of lipstick to wear.

Sara’s eyes go impossibly wide when she catches sight of him in the mirror. “Mickey, what are you doing in here? I need to get ready. Stefano will be here at eight!”

“Sara, cancel on him. He’s no good.”

“I like him.”

“He just wants to watch his wife fuck you.”

“Maybe I’m okay with that too.”

Blood red anger clouds Michele’s vision. “Why do you do this to me Sara?” Why do you torment me that way.” Mickey grabs her by the wrist with a bruising grasp and jerks her upward. He forces her to stand on shaky limbs as they stare one another down.

Mickey knows that time must pass between them. Whether they spend hours or mere seconds watching each other with wide and horrified gazes, he’s uncertain.

“Mickey, please,” and he’d expected her to say, “please no,” or “please don’t.” He’d never want to hurt her, and so it would end there. He’d let go of his crushing grasp around her wrist, and hole up in his room until it all blew over, and they pretended that it never happened.

Instead he’s shocked when she hikes her robe up, presents him with supple and unclothed skin, and knocks most of her makeup to the floor. The crystal bottle of rose scented bubble bath clatters against the bathroom tiles, and shatters. The whole room smells overwhelmingly of roses.

“Mickey, I won’t ask again,” She plants her hands on the vanity counter, and locks eyes with him in the vanity mirror.

She never asked anything at all, but he’s more than willing to oblige.

Michele unbuckles his pants. He’s already hard. He touches Sara quickly, and when he feels dampness, abandons the idea that she needs any further preparation. If she comes tonight, she’ll come on his cock and nothing else.

Michele grabs himself by the base, and watches himself sink slowly inside.

“Mickey,” Sara says through harsh and uneven gasps for air. “Mickey, go slow,”

But he’s already thrusting in so fast and so deep. He wants to show her, he wants her to ache later, and think of him. He grabs her by the hips and goes in deeper. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh combines with her soft cries of “Mickey,” over and over again. It’s a far more beautiful song than anything he’s ever skated too.

And then, “Mickey, it hurts.”

Michele slows his thrusts to a slow roll of his hips. “Sara?”

Their gazes meet in the mirror for a moment. Her eyes are blown wide, and look glassy as if she’s about to cry. In the movement, her robe has been torn open. For the first time in a very long time, and certainly since any of this began, he gets a glimpse of his sister’s body. She’s lean and muscular, but still so very, very soft. He runs his hands across her sharp collar bones, and her chest. He grabs her breasts and pushes them together, watches how pliant they are as he squeezes them between his hands. He trails down her stomach, and rests his hands on her hips.

“Sara,” He breathes into the shell of her ear. He laps at her ear and leaves a wet trail of kisses down her neck. Carefully, he mouths over the fading purple mark on her neck. It’s so tempting, to deepen the mark and make it worse. Especially if she still wants to go see him after all of this.

“I’m sorry.” As angry and upset as he is, as much as he does want Sara to hurt, and to suffer the way that he’s hurt and the way that he’s suffered. Her her cry is too much to bear.

“Mickey, just take it slow.” As if on cue she tightens around his cock and pushes back. “You’re my first.”

“What?”

“I lied okay? You’re my first.”

Michele had fantasized for so long about this moment. He’d considered everything, down to the very last detail. He’d always wanted to pull out and come on his sister's ass, or coming only after he’d made her come on his cock. Neither of these dreams are made a reality. Upon hearing his Sara’s confession, he comes deep inside.

Before he pulls out, Michele makes sure to tilt her chin back and kiss her deeply.

Sara moves for the shower once more after he pulls out. “What are you doing?”

“I need to wash off before my date.”

Michele simply grabs the clean pair of underwear from among Sara’s things. The outfit she laid out is quite nice, a simple black and white asymmetrical dress, with black panties. No bra. Carefully, he bends at the knee, and holds the underwear out for Sara to step into.

Sara looks to him as if she understands without being told. She steps one foot into the underwear, and then the other. Michele slowly pulls them up her body, and lets go of the underwear with a snap. He runs his hand over her now clothed cheeks. He turns them both, so they can look at one another once more in the mirror. “No.” The statement is simple and speaks volumes. “You can go out. Fine. But I want you to feel me when you’re with him. I want you to never forget who you belong to.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re late,” Michele announces when she enters the studio at 4:47 PM. Their sessions usually start at 3:30 promptly and exactly thirty minutes after her sociology class ends. Sara’s gaze travels up and down his body, until finally drifting back upward. She locks eyes with him.

It’s a good thing that she discarded the prescription packaging in the bus station bathroom. Inevitably he would’ve found it and questioned her about it relentlessly. It’s better this way, but she can’t help but wonder how long it will take him to even consider that what happened the night before might actually have consequences.

“Am I?” She asks coolly. “How would you even know?”

“Your class ends at three.” Michele meets her at the studio on Wednesdays and Fridays. He only has one class in the early afternoon while she has two. He usually goes home and makes them a snack. Every day she picks over the food as soon as she gets to the studio.

“Oh,” Sara reaches for her bag and extracts an elastic ponytail holder she ties up her hair in a high ponytail. Then, she reaches for the smoothie that Michele brought her. She chases the straw around and around a few times with her lips before finally catching it and taking a sip. Sara doesn’t hide the slight grimace in her expression when she tastes the drink. It’s got too much artificial sweetener in it. “I guess I am late then.” She decides finally. “Coach Ricci isn’t here either.”

“Coach Ricci got upset that you were over an hour late.” Michele bites through a clenched jaw. “He did that thing where he threw stuff, and yelled, and left in a huff.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened Mickey.” Sara abandons the drink by her bag and moves to the center of the studio floor. She moves into a simple ballet position, and begins going through the motions of her opening step sequence.

The silence and the tension hangs between them like a thick but invisible cord that wraps around his neck, and is tied daintily to her index finger.

“Fine,” their eyes are locked in the studio mirror even as she goes through the motions of her step sequence. “He called you irresponsible. I told him to get out.”

“Mickey!” Ricci had only been their coach since they were twenty. Their last coach decided to retire, despite training both of them since they were in kindergarten. Bruno knew them. Knew everything about them, and understood how inseparable they were. Ricci didn’t understand, but he was a decent coach. Michele medaled in both of his Grand Prix events this year, and his improvement was undeniable.

“I won’t let him talk about you that way Sara.”

“Listen,” She moves into a arabesque. “Let me handle this.” Her form is off due to the distraction, and she moves her leg the wrong way ever so slightly. She hopes that Mickey doesn’t see the way she winches.

“It’s because you didn’t stretch.”

Sara twirls into Michele’s chest. He catches her on either side with hands that touch her so softly, it’s hard to believe that those same hands left her hips and her arms so bruised from the night before. “Help me stretch then Mickey.”

Sara waits for Michele to spread her lavender colored yoga mat on the floor. Then, she lays on the floor. Sara extends her leg, and waits for Michele to apply just enough pressure. He pushes her leg close to her chest. His gaze is heavy upon her.

She can feel her chest tighten and the bile rise in her throat. It feels a little bit like shame.

Michele’s left hand moves freely down her thigh. With her leg pressed to her chest she’s open and exposed. He grinds into her crotch with the palm of his hand.

The thought is lightning quick, and barely has time to register as more than a blip on her conscious. However, for the first time since all of this began on the night she went to Michele’s room...No, this began far earlier than that. Maybe it started back before they had money, and mama had them sleep in the same double bed in their cramped apartment. Maybe it started when they were still in pairs during juniors and Michele’s hands always lingered for far too long in places they shouldn’t have. Maybe it began when she asked to keep practicing lifts until they were both breathless because the burn of Michele’s hands against her costumed skin felt so good.

Maybe it doesn’t matter so much when it started. For the first time, the thought flits through her mind like a dancer on freshly smoothed ice. Maybe she’s done something wrong. Maybe the real problem is that she’s never considered that it might be wrong until this very moment.

“Sara,” Michele rotates her leg so that it’s perpendicular to the other. “Did you think about me on your date last night?”

“Yes.” Sara gasps when the heavy hand between her legs leaves, and in it’s wake Michele’s blunt clipped nails scratch against the exposed swath of skin between her shirt and her leggings. “Stefano thought he got me so wet.”

Michele pets her in slow pressure filled circles, under the leggings over the panties. She can feel the cloth that’s jammed between her legs become damp from her brother’s attention.

“You’re lying Sara,” Michele wears a smirk. It’s the kind that he wears up on the podium. The grin envelops his entire face so that his jaw is firmly set. His eyebrow is cocked in tandem with his mouth pulled tight. Cocksure, and arrogant, Sara knows that much like his time on the podium, Michele’s confidence is fleeting.

“Why would I?” She sucks in a sharp gasp of breath and bites her lip to hold it in. She tastes her lipgloss, pineapple mango, faintly on her tongue. Determined to wrestle control back from Michele, she purposefully breaks eye contact with him, and instead focuses on the sterile fluorescent light fixtures on the ceiling. She stares at them until her vision is speckled white. “That’s what you wanted isn’t it? Him to fuck me with your come inside?” As she talks the knot in her throat dissipates. The natural bite of venom returns, and as soon as she finishes talking and listens to the upward inflection in her own voice she knows that she’s wrestled control away from him once more.

“Sara,” Michele moves up her body and into her space. She tries to avert her gaze, but he catches her chin in his hands and forces her to look at him. “You’re lying. I know you’re lying to me.”

“That’s right.”

Fingers scratch at the crest of her thigh and pull her leggings and underpants down so that they bunch at her knees in one fluid movement. “Why do you do that Sara?” Michele looms over her and leers at her the same way that he does strange men that he deems a challenge.

He’s so fragile, it’s disgusting.

Michele doesn’t give her a chance to respond. Instead, his movements are forceful and graceless. Michele mashes his lips to hers once more, and forces his tongue into her mouth before the kiss has had a chance to blossom between them. Simultaneously, she can feel him clutch at his own clothes. She knows that he’s tugging his already stiffened cock out of his pants. Then, her brother places the blunt head at her entrance and presses in without ceremony or preamble.

They were going to have to work on that.

“Sara,” Michele tries to kiss her again. She rebuffs him. Instead, the only skin to skin contact between them is the place where he’s sunk deep into her, and the sharp heavy sound of the palm of her hand striking his cheek.

Michele’s mouth drops open slack with shock, but not even for a moment do the shallow and uneven thrusts stop.

So Sara does it again.

“Am I hurting you?” Michele supports himself on one arm, and forces her to actually look at him with the other. He tilts her chin forward, and finds it so hard to not get lost in Michele’s deep and suffocating thistle shaded gaze.

“No.”

“So you want me to stop.”

Sara turns her head to the side so as to not look him directly in the eyes when she says it. She crosses and uncrosses her eyes as she focuses on her melting smoothie, and the hoodie that’s spilling and wilting out of her bag. “No.”

Michele collapses onto her. It’s nice because she can bury her face in the crook of his still clothed arm while he rocks against her and stare at the ceiling. She can stare at the harsh fluorescent lights until they burn imprints onto the back of her retinas and leave faint little scars on the back of her skull.

“Sara, I love you. Sara, just be with me.”

Sara remembers once when they were in primary school, Michele stood up for her against a boy who lived on the corner. He pulled her hair and made comments about her body before she even could understand that they were wrong. But somehow Michele knew. He was in high school. He didn’t stand a chance, and came home covered in bruises.

“Love me like I love you Sara. Please.”

In recent memory, Mila set her up with an acquaintance. She was connected to the Latvian men’s curling team, who regularly went out drinking with the men’s Biathlon team. Things got pretty heated pretty quickly in Sochi. Michele threw the first punch, and her date landed the second.

“Sara you’re everything to me. Please.”

There are a thousand more altercations like this buried just beneath the surface of her memory. Michele never cried, no matter how deeply he got caught up in his own bravado. No matter how many times he got his ass kicked completely.

“Mickey kiss me again.”

Michele complies. His lips are bruising and demanding, just like the quick snapping movements of his hips.

Sara wraps her legs around his hips and pulls him in deeper. Michele moans into the kiss. Sara slaps him once more across the cheek, open palmed wide across the face. The sound is sharp like a rock shattering glass. The blow is forceful, and surely would’ve forced him out of her had she not wrapped her legs tight around his waist, or had she not clenched down on him a little harder.

Sara watches through heavy lidded eyes as Michele’s eyes screw shut, and his jaw clenches tight. She can feel his cock twitch deep inside and empty within her.

A steady stream of tears run down his face. In these moments, Sara is reminded of just  _how_ beautiful her brother really is. 

* * *

 

After the incident in the studio, Michele is insatiable.

Sara finds it hard to find a reason to turn him down. Of course she knew that once the lines of deniability were slowly and carefully dissolved, there would be no going back.

When they watch television after dinner, he either holds her close and presses into her hard and needy until she gives in. Or they sit across from each other on the wide expanse of the cushions. Sometimes he’ll try to tease her in the same way that she teased him. He teases with his feet and gives her glances that linger too long. Those attempts are always colossal failures, and so he stops trying that way soon enough.

When she overfills her tub with skin blisteringly hot water and rose scented bubble bath, he lingers in the doorway to her bedroom. His shirt is conveniently gone already.

She always says no to these attempts, no matter how deeply they make her blush or make her feel a deep and stifling heat between her legs.

At night he lingers in her doorway and asks if he can sleep in her room.

These requests are always handled differently than simple requests for sex. At first, she always turns him down with a firm, “No Mickey. I’ve been thinking...” and of course this winds him up more than a simple, “no,” or the mere implication that she’s seeing another man. Of course, she never finishes the sentence. She just pouts in a way that’s heavy and laden with worry. One that says in so many ways, “I’ve been thinking that this is wrong,” but never makes that thought explicit.

Because much like when she had the first inkling of the thought in the dance studio, the feeling is fleeting. So quickly, it is erased by the memory of unbalanced thrusts of Michele’s thick cock, and the promise of berating him whenever he comes too quickly.

He always comes too quickly.

If she turns him down outright, he’ll promise, “I mean I don’t want that,” but only he cycles through a wide array of emotions at being told no. Sadness, disappointment, anger, disgust, and then finally, “just let me taste you.”

To this Sara always agrees. He’s actually getting better at this over time. First, he’ll gently lap at her. Then he increases the pressure. Sucking, gentle nips to her clit, and flat forceful movements of the tongue that make her arch upward into his mouth.

With Michele’s insatiability, there also comes greed. He wants to undress her fully, which is never allowed. When he emerges from between her legs and her body is still ringing with pleasure, he’ll bury his face in the smooth skin of her stomach, or the crook of her neck, or between her breasts and rut up against her thigh. He’ll demand in a voice that’s husky, needy, and far too confidant, “It’s my turn now.” Which is supposed to be a statement, but his confidence always wavers halfway through.

She’ll shoot him a pointed glare, and rip control of the situation away from him. “You can jerk off in front of me.” Of course he always complies, and she always makes it worth his while with soft little murmurs of, “So big Mickey.”

The requests become far too frequent.

Years ago, she gave Michele her portion of bread because she wasn’t all that hungry at dinner. Almost two decades later he still feels entitled to pinch bread from her plate if she doesn’t eat it immediately.

On their twelfth birthday, they got an assortment of candies. Michele helped himself to her hazelnut candies because he simply assumed that she did not like them. Mickey does not have free reign or access to her body. That would destroy all of the fun.

Something has to be done.

“Mickey stop,” Sara whines into his shoulder. “They’re sore,” but she’s uncertain if that will work. Mickey doesn’t always respond right away. He’s always rough with her despite constantly talking about protecting and sheltering. He leaves his fair share of bruises on all the places on her body that are often hidden by her costume, and she’s often sore the next day. Her collar bones, thumb print marks on the crest of her hips, she’s even found ugly and childish purple love marks on her breasts.

Michele slowly and reluctantly removes his hand from her breast. “Sore? I was being too rough,” and he clenches his his jaw tight and furrows his brow. Immediately he moves his head lower, so that he can soothe with his mouth.

“No, that hurts too Mickey. They’re sore,” She explains once more.

“I’ll be gentle,” Michele whines. She rarely lets him touch her chest.

“I want to, it’s just sore.” Her voice becomes firmer with irritation. How will she ever be able to have fun with him if Michele has no idea what’s going on. “It’s just something that happens with women.”   
Michele finally leaves her chest alone. He pushes her onto her stomach and rubs his cock between her lips, which feel swollen and dripping from his earlier attention. He pushes inside without another word.

She needs to go for less subtle symptoms.

“Coach Ricci, I’m sorry I just think I need to sit down for a minute.” Sara shakily glides off of the ice and seats herself in the hockey penalty box.

Before Ricci can even respond, Michele’s skating toward her at a lightening fast pace. “What’s wrong Sara.”

“It’s fine,” she rubs at her forehead. Just a little dizzy that’s all.

Ricci almost has a coronary trying to get Sara to drink some water and assess her physical condition and keep Michele going through his step sequence. Sara almost feels bad for Ricci.

The next day, it’s Michele’s turn to cook breakfast. He makes up two egg white omelettes, alongside lots of spinach, mushrooms, and tomatoes.

This is always Sara’s favorite thing to have for breakfast, and Michele can actually flip the omelette so they come out looking nice and neat. She can never pull that off herself. All these little details make it extremely difficult for her to make a big show of meekly walking into the kitchen with her face twisted into a disgusted grimace.

When Mickey puts the plate in front of her, she notices that he’s topped it with just a bit of cheese. Which only makes her stomach growl.

“Mickey,” her face falls. It feels genuine, because for a moment, she legitimately feels bad for Michele, despite the fact that she’s the source of everything. It’s not his fault that she won’t just give in, because she wants it just as much as he does. “I can’t.” She gets up from the table with a start, and almost knocks him over.

By the time she locks the door and slides down against the tiled bathroom wall, the guilt has faded. She can hear Michele’s heavy footsteps across the dining room, enter her room and linger at the door.

She makes sure to make a few convincing retching noises.

When she unlocks the door sometime later, Michele is still outside. She wonders if she looks convincingly pale. “You shouldn’t go to practice today. I’ll call Ricci and say that you’re not coming.”

“I can try-”

“No.” Michele’s voice is firm, but there’s no hint of anger or misplaced frustration. That’s rare for him these days. “You’re getting back in bed and resting. Email your professors about class this afternoon, but nothing else.”

She has such a caring brother.

* * *

 

Sara goes back to the pharmacy several weeks after all of this began. Michele’s never as much asked about preventative measures, or asked if they should use a condom. He’s not put two and two together. He’s still very oblivious about the feigned soreness and nausea that she fakes for his attention. So, all things considered, he deserves this. It’s also not the worst idea to pick up a test so she can make sure that the single little pill her doctor prescribed did it’s job.

The weather is nice enough for a winter’s day. The sun is out, and there is no wind. Sara treats herself to a large latte with an extra pump of vanilla flavoring, because why not? It’s a good day. Sara got an A on her Sociology exam, and she’s going to put Michele back into his place.

Sara listens to her new free skate song, which always makes her smile. She sings the lyrics to herself under her breath, and doesn’t care when she attracts lingering glances and sideways stares.

Sara decides that in general people are far too serious. They should lighten up. They should take a moment to enjoy crisp winter air without the bite of bitter cold. They should take time to enjoy good music. Enjoy their families.

“You’re feeling better. I can tell.” Michele beams with a smile that is impossibly wide considering how little tooth he flashes.

“Yes, I finally am!” She agrees. “Ricci isn’t here yet,” she looks around the rink. It’s just them and the staff. Later, a few other skaters on the national team will probably join them, but for now it’s just the two of them on the ice. “Let’s do a lift,” she suggests. “Like we used to.”

“Yes!” Michele’s voice is light and full of laughter. It sounds so much better than when he’s seething with anger.

They move in perfect synch without music or recent practice in wide diagonal movement across the rink, followed by big sweeping choctaws.

Michele moves into an elegant Ina Bauer. She steps in gingerly, and is lifted gracefully. It’s as if they never stopped doing pairs at all.

It makes sense though.

Not long after mother moved them out of the cramped flat where they shared the same bed, they moved into a bigger apartment. They had their own rooms for the first time. They also quit pairs to do singles around the same time.

After their debut Grand Prix in singles, Sara wanted to practice a lift, much as they were doing now. They tried, and tried, and tried, but couldn’t do it. She’s crept into Michele’s room every night so far this week. It’s no accident that the lift is competition ready, despite the fact that they haven’t done it in years.

After practice she pulls Michele by the arm to the market to buy things for dinner. “We should make something nice tonight. Something a little better than what we usually eat,” which is typically woefully underseasoned lean meat, steamed vegetables, and bread. Maybe bread, if Michele lets her have her piece.

“Like what?”

“We could make mussels with tomato broth. Like grandma used to make.” Sara hangs off of his arm and looks up at him. Michele likes the dish. Both of them have so many fond memories of staying with their grandparents while mother worked. The food, and the attention, and the afternoons of watching nothing but cartoons and not being forced to practice almost made up for the fact that grandma and grandpa made them sleep in a separate bed.

He wouldn’t have said no. Her smile is so bright and so genuine, he wouldn’t have the chance to do so even if he wanted to. “We should have the wine that Emil sent us for Christmas too.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“I don’t know.” She smiles into his shirtsleeve. “I feel better. We did a good lift today.”

Before they cook, Sara ducks into her bathroom, carefully unwraps the test she bought at the pharmacy earlier in the day, and reads the instructions.

She waits three minutes exactly. It’s easy to avoid furtive glances at the test. She reapplies her favorite shade of nude colored lipstick, and she adds a little mascara for good measure. Michele always says he likes her better without makeup. In reality, he just means that he likes it when her makeup looks more natural.

Much to her relief, the test reads negative. Still, the medication her doctor gave her would only buy her a little more time. She needs a more permanent option, like pills. Or, maybe this little date she’s planned for Michele will make him want to use condoms.

Sara can’t even remember a single time that he’s had the sense to pull out.

Sara places the test and the packaging strategically next to her beloved pink bottle of bubble bath. She made Michele buy her a new bottle after she broke the last one knocking everything off of the counter in a fit of passion.

“Cooking together is kind of fun isn’t it?” Sara makes the broth, and tends to the mussels while Michele is regulated to the sideline chopping vegetables and stirring the orzo.

“We should do it more often. Instead of taking turns,” Michele responds.

“But then we can’t watch television.” On Michele’s days to cook, Sara watches crappy reality television reruns. On Sara’s days to cook, Michele watches Sports recap programs.

“Who cares?”

“Yeah,” Sara laughs. “I guess you’re right.” She spoons several unopened mussels out of the pot and into the garbage can. Then she moves the large simmering pot to the small table that’s crammed in between their kitchen and their livingroom. “Open the wine Mickey.”

Over dinner, Sara drinks most of the wine. It’s a very big bottle, Emil wanted to make sure they had enough to share. Emil was very considerate like that.

She poured the first two glasses for herself. Then Michele poured the rest, and never let her glass get less than half empty. She’d feel taken advantage of, if it didn’t fit perfectly into her already perfect evening.

By the time Michele opens the plastic clamshell that seals off the cheesecake they picked up from the bakery, Sara finds it hard to concentrate on anything other that Michele. Michele, and the rest of the evening.

“Here have some,” Michele takes a piece of cheesecake on his fork and tries to feed her a piece.

Sara accepts.

“Good.”

“Yeah, but…” Sara rolls her eyes playfully. “I can think of something better.”

“Like what?”

Sara leans in close to him. The scent of his cologne is thick. She whispers into his ear with a sharp giggle. “You should pour me a bath.”

“No peeking Mickey!” She calls from her walk in closet, as she tries to strip down and pull her robe on. It’s hard to believe that he’ll listen. She expects him to barge it at any moment and push her up against the wall. But somehow she manages to get the robe pulled on, and marches into the bathroom to find Michele shirtless, testing the temperature of the water with his hand. “Well we need bubbles. Mickey.”

The tub is nothing but steaming water. It needs fluffy white rose scented bubbles. She needs Mickey to walk over to that side of the room.

Michele complies. Sara undoes her robe, pushes it off her shoulders, and lets it fall to the floor. In her drunk wine induced haze, she looks at her feet and the pooled purple satin around her feet. The steam from the bath is warm and laps at her body gently. Far more gently that Michele ever could.

Sara steps into the tub. First with her right foot, then her left. Between the wine, the heat of the bath, and the confused and mortified expression on Michele’s face, it’s hard to not just melt into the water with glee. Somehow she manages. “Make sure you add the bubbles before it gets too full.”

Sara watches as Michele stares at the packaging of the pregnancy test. He swallows thickly, and then reaches for the bubble bath. Dutifully he adds two capfuls of bubble bath mixture into the running water. Slowly the soap begins to blossom into snow white bubbles that grow around her and fill in in the middle.

Michele’s gaze is heavy. It doesn’t linger achingly between her legs, or on her chest. She feels the weight of his gaze on the flat of her stomach. The light and airy atmosphere between them at the rink and at dinner is gone. Sara is almost upset that she’s ruined it.

“Sara,” Michele turns at the exact moment that she sinks down into the tub. “Are you um,” He’s cute when he does that. When he bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling, like he’s done something wrong and he’s afraid to make eye contact with her. “On anything.”

There it is. Finally. They’ve only been doing this for what, a month? Maybe longer?

“Anything?” She looks up at him with big wide eyes. “Oh. No.”

“Oh.” Michele tries to hide the crack in his voice. It sounds hollow and empty, like he’s still trying to put together all the pieces mentally.

He’s still not meeting her gaze, which means she has the freedom to look him up and down and back up again. His shirt was long discarded. His muscles are toned, and his skin looks soft. She doesn’t touch him much whenever they play together. That’s kind of a shame. Maybe she’ll fix that tonight. Despite his obvious discomfort, he’s still obviously hard underneath his loose fitting pants.

“So the test?”

“I messed it up,” she lies through her teeth, and tries to curb the smile too widely while she does it. “I have to buy another one tomorrow.”

“You don’t know?” Michele locks eyes with her again finally. It’s the same kind of confused and lost look that he got when he asked a girl out their first year of high school, and she turned him down because, “he already had a girlfriend.” She somehow didn’t know that they were twins. It’s the same kind of hurt and fearful look that he gets when she hasn’t told him how to feel about something yet, and she refuses to tell him. She savors those moments where discomfort pinches his shoulders tight and makes him look like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin.

“Mickey, there’s no way of knowing until I go back to the pharmacy and get another.” She moves her hand under the water, and flicks it upward splashing him with droplets of water. She is quite drunk after all.

“Right.” Michele is white as a ghost, but he removes his pants anyway. Sara doesn’t miss the way his cock bobs against the waistband of his pants and his underwear.

First, Michele bends her over the side of the bath and fucks her until the water becomes tepid. Then, he picks her up out of the water and drops her unceremoniously onto her bed, still sopping wet from the bath. He doesn’t come too soon this time. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. He touches all of the right places, and goes at just the right speed, until she’s aching deep within.

“Mickey,” she sucks in air in short rapid breaths. Usually she’s able to make him come with cruelly twisted words. She’ll mouth “brother,” against his neck until he shudders and slumps on top of her drunk from orgasm. This time, she moans, and screams it over, and over again and it only seems to spurn him on.

Michele takes her on her back, then folds her legs up onto her stomach so that he can go deeper, and then pushes her legs even further back so that they’re resting against either side of her head, and she can feel nothing but Mickey and the slow burn of her leg muscles being stretched.

He fucks her for what feels like hours, until she’s rubbed red and raw. Until she feels sore all over. Michele’s stamina seems unending, and she just wants him to come. “Mickey,” she repeats. Meekly she wriggles out of his grasp once more and lowers her legs. She then takes her hand into his, and places his hand flat against her stomach.

He comes immediately.

She’d thought of telling him that the test was negative after they were finished.

She’s not so sure now.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Mickey,” she chokes out with a sob. It’s not the kind that she forces out with a high pitched, almost forced kind of feminine voice. It’s one that’s torn from between her ribs and wrung out in the back of her throat. “It hurts.” She can feel tears well up in the corner of her eyes. Try as she might, she can’t stop their inevitable free fall down her face.

She should have said no. He asked more frequently these days. Every time he had her bent over the side of the sofa, or the table, or pressed up against the wall, or on all fours in bed. With his cock already buried inside of her, he’d press against her asshole with the pad of his thumb. There were variations to the question of course. Sometimes he’d lick his finger first, and then he’d slide the saliva over her hole. Or, he’d run his fingers along her slit, and user her own natural fluids. He’d apply just a bit of pressure, and breathe deeply into her ear, “Sara.”

And every time the answer was of course the same. “No.” Of course there were variations to the response. Simple a simple “no” sufficed sometimes. Other times, “No Mickey, that’s disgusting.” Or a kick from behind to his shins.

Michele always had to be told things twice: by their mother, by their coach, and by her. Especially by her, and at least twice when it came to sex. He’d keep applying pressure, sometimes going so far as to breach her with the tip of his finger. “We wouldn’t have to worry about you getting pregnant,” he’d say in a husky voice into the shell of her ear.

Of course, they wouldn’t have to worry about it if he’d use a condom like most other people.

This time, it was much more difficult to say no. Michele had done very well in the Olympic trials. He was guaranteed to go to Pyeong Chang and represent Italy with her. Sara didn’t speak to him for a week beforehand. Michele cried, and he sulked, and he got an all-time high score on his free program at the trials.

So, she had to reward him. 

* * *

Michele does everything right. He takes the time to do everything right which is unusual given the way that he usually approaches sex. She protests adamantly, “Mickey, that’s dirty,” but he stands the shower with her and helps her get clean with the enema she made him buy at the pharmacy.

 

He assures her with soft kisses to the neck and shoulder, “No part of you is dirty Sara,” and “I love you,” and “I’ll make sure that it feels good for you.”

 

He dries her off carefully, and not once does he try to rush. He guides her down onto the bed, which is covered in more fluffy white towels laid out over the sheets.

  
Michele eats her out until she is dripping. That always makes saying no to anything that Michele wants difficult. He was getting _so_ good at it. First, he teases her outside, lapping at her folds and nipping lightly at her outer labia. Then, he touches her clit, so softly with his tongue that she has to arch up into him for more. Of course, he never denied her anything. There is more pressure there, as he takes her clit into his mouth entirely. He stays there, lapping and sucking alternating back and forth. Each motion making her body tense, and pulling her forward, forward over the edge.

He eats her out until she was shaking, breathy, coated in sweat, undeniably satiated. He doesn’t stop at her orgasm. His tongue trails lower. He breaches her with his tongue. This always feels so strange to Sara as the pressure and thickness weren’t enough to build pleasure, but they were certainly strong enough to make her want, and to make her burn once again.

Then, finally, lower still.

When he gets there, Sara’s whole body clenches. She screws her eyes shut in embarrassment. “Mickey, you don’t have to.” Normally, she’d jump at the chance to have him service her, make him focus on her pleasure. Now, she cannot think about anything other than how embarrassed she is.

She screws her eyes shut, and then her legs too.

“Sara,” Michele’s voice is soft. He trails his thumb along her lips and then, down to her ass. “Please don’t hide. I want to. I want to do this. Since you’re doing so much for me.”

Michele rubs soft circles on her knee with his thumb. It’s surprisingly tender. Too tender given the usual roughness with which he typically treats her body. “Sara, I love you.”

She knows this. She hears it every day. She knows that he uses this against her. It’s one of the few things that actually works against her.

Sara parts her legs. Instead of diving between them immediately, Michele moves up her body into a searing hot kiss. He traces the crease of her mouth with his tongue and she parts her lips for him slowly. He doesn’t just push in, but instead laps at her mouth cautiously.

She should know better.

Michele then moves down her body. He hoists her hips high, and throws her legs up over his shoulder. He licks a long stripe from her pussy, across her ass, almost, but not quite to her tailbone. “Ah!” She flails and she kicks against him, but he holds onto her with firm, but surprisingly gentle hands.

Then and there, she should really know better. Michele never misses a chance to leave soft finger print shaped bruises on her hips. It’s his favorite thing to do.

Michele moves back to her ass, spreads his tongue flat and wide and hot across her hole.

Despite the fact that it’s _disgusting_ and she feels so vulnerable, her pussy clenches against the contact.

Michele continues to lap at her. He circles the rim of her hole with his tongue. He laps at it, testing the tight band of muscle with his tongue, but never breaching her. He pulls away, and blows a puff of cool air over her damp skin, and it makes her squeal.

“You like it.”

“I do not. You better win gold for this Mickey.”

Michele returns his attention to her ass. He laps at her again until she stops squirming and kicking at his back, and then he pushes his tongue inside.

She bucks up against him.

“Oh, my go-od.”

“Relax sis,” he chuckles. “Something a lot bigger is going in there in a bit.”

“Not if you keep talking like that.”

Michele doesn’t respond. He breaches her again with his tongue, and pushes her open as wide as he can with his mouth. It feels _similar_ to when he does this with her pussy, but different all the same. There’s no drag, but her body resists completely.

His tongue darts in and out until she feels a little looser. Sloppier for sure.  In his over enthusiasm, his teeth catch and drag against her skin making her twist and thrash about the sheets. When she cannot reach for his short clipped hair, she buries her fingers in the sheets and tugs at them. Although, she cannot be sure if it is in ecstasy or frustration.

Just as she gets used to the intrusion, there’s more pressure, more drag, a slight sting. Gone is the pleasurable, feather light strokes of his tongue that set her on fire.

“Is that your finger?”

“Yeah,” he breathes against her thigh.

“Use the lube. Idiot.”

Michele whines, this time against her lips. As if he’s going to be able to lick and kiss and bite away something that is so non-negotiable.

“Turn over Sara.”

“Use lube,” because Michele always has to be told twice. She lets her legs down off of his shoulders, and then turns over as requested.

She can hear the click of the cap of the lube that she made him buy. She wrinkles her nose at the scent of artificial fruit. It’s thick, and plastic like, and clings to the air on the already lingering scent of sex in the room.

“It’s strawberry flavored,” he says with a hint of pride in his voice.

What does she care?

She can feel him spread lube all around her ass, and across her premium. It seeps down her tailbone, and she’s so glad they put down towels. The only thing that could make this worse were if her favorite sheets were ruined.

There’s more pressure on her hole, and then all at once her body gives in to Mickey.

Determined not to waste the flavored lube, he moves his head back down between her legs. He laps at her hole again, trying to stretch her out more with his finger and his tongue at once. The movements are awkward, and not particularly enjoyable.

His finger stings, and she cannot decide if it feels good or bad.

He doesn’t let her decide. He removes his head again, and in goes another finger. “Ah-fuck Mickey you bastard,” she curses at him in a litany of English, Italian, Spanish, and any other language she can think of.

The sting is replaced with a burn. Not the kind of burn that happens when he enters her too quickly, the kind that she knows will fade into something amazing, and something worth chasing. No, this is like when she falls onto the ice, and fire spreads across her skin. She feels so impossibly full, and she knows that Michele’s cock is so much bigger. She can feel it resting thick, and hot and heavy against her thigh, rutting into her as he fingers her.

Michele pours more lube over her hole and her finger.

“Am I hurting you Sara?”

“Uh-hum,” she whimpers. “Mickey, brother,” maybe if she talks her way through it, he’ll come on her thigh and she won’t have to follow through.

“Sara,” he hisses. “I’ll make it good. I promise. I promise you. You’ll want it from me, I-“

“Shut up!” She hisses through clenched teeth. “Just shut up, and get on with it.” If he’s going to hold out and wait for the main event, it’s the least he could do. He _still_ has a bad habit of coming too soon.

“You’re still too tight. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She thrashes wildly against him, which only drives his fingers deeper.

“Sara,” he moves up her body to whisper in her ear. “Sara, please. Relax. Trust me.”

She did.

Which _of course_ was a mistake.

“Mickey,” she sobs.

Michele nibbles at her earlobe. He tells her that she’s beautiful, first in English, and then Italian. With his free hand, he rubs in between her shoulders, making her release some but not all of the tension she holds in her body.

“Am I not good to you Sara? Do you not trust me Sara?” Before she has time to protest, she’s relaxed around his fingers. He’s scissoring them, in and out, and side to side. Every flick of the wrist causes her body to make the most embarrassing noises that come from too much lube and too tight of a body.

Michele moans just looking at her and feeling her clench. He works another finger inside. Just when she thought she couldn’t feel fuller, she’s wrong. It doesn’t burn this time, so much as his third finger is just raw and blunt pressure.

Her pussy aches, empty, and desperate for something. Anything.

“I think you’re ready.”

“No,” she moans. It’s halfhearted. This isn’t about her body protesting anymore. It’s completely about tormenting Mickey.

“But Sara, three fingers isn’t that much smaller than my dick.”

“Mickey, no,” she turns back and kisses him. It’s deep and it’s sloppy and they both pant and moan into each other, but she’d never say that she liked it. She pushes back against his fingers finding the burn and the stretch more addictive than they should be.

Michele extracts one finger, then another, and then finally the third. Sara has to bite her lip to conceal the groan that builds in her chest and threatens to slip out at any moment. This kind of thing is dangerous, something that she shouldn’t like. Something that she doesn’t like simply because Mickey wants it so badly.

The acrid scent of the lube is back. “Stay on your stomach. Okay?” Michele instructs. “I wanna see it go in.”

Sara had a retort lined up and ready to go, but she never gets the chance to bark it out at Michele. There’s more pressure at her ass, and then she’s being stretched _so_ much wider than his fingers. “Mickey,” she gasps as if she’s just ran for training. Her vision blurs for a moment, and all she can think about is the pain. “It hurts.”

Michele doesn’t say anything behind her for a moment. There’s nothing between them but their sharp and ragged breathing. He’s getting off on this. On all of this, even how much he’s hurting her, and it makes her see red. It makes her want to turn over and slap him.

Except that his hands rise to her hips. He pulls her up, and immediately his hands are back on her pussy. He rubs circles on her clit, and then sinks a finger inside. He presses against her walls, back against his own cock buried in her ass. The feeling makes her feel queasy.

“Stop being selfish,” and she tries to kick at him meekly.

Michele complies. He plays with her and touches her in all the way that he knows that she likes until she’s relaxed around his cock once again. As soon as she’s not in severe pain, he’s grinding against her. As soon as she’s relaxed he’s sliding in and out in shallow thrusts.

By the time he extracts his fingers from her pussy, he’s watching himself slide in and out, and sliding his fingers along the stretched rim of her hole.

It makes Sara feel beyond embarrassed. _Degraded._

“Feels good doesn’t it?”

“No.” Her response is somewhere between a truth and a lie.

“I wish you could see it.”

She doesn’t respond, and instead simply closes her eyes and tries to tune out the noises between them. His skin slapping against hers, her high pitched, almost panicked moans, and his low, primal grunting noises that make her forget that he’s her brother, and supposed to protect her.

Michele pounds in deeper. He lets all of his cock slide inside. He pistons his hips rapidly, and the low burn is replaced by a throbbing ache. Sara can feel pinprick tears form at her eyes. It hurt, but she also wants something else so badly. Her pussy feels so empty. So neglected.

Fingers thread into her hair, pull her backwards, and then Michele is kissing her. “Sara,” his movements become erratic. He begs her “please,” over and over again without making a request. Soon, but not soon enough, she feels him pulse and twitch releasing inside of her.

Then there’s the strange, empty feeling when he pulls out. She leaks everywhere. It’s so embarrassing. Then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, he doesn’t help her into the shower. He does not pull her close to hold her, nor does he kiss her.

He flips her back over onto her back, folds her legs up, “Oh God, Mickey no.”  His mouth is on her ass again chasing ever bit of his own left behind come.

“Sara, how can I make you understand?” He asks between her thighs. “I meant it. No part of you is dirty. I love all of you.”

Michele slides his fingers into her. Her body betrays her disgust. She’s soaking wet, and greedy for his touch. It only takes a few flicks of his wrist and his tongue in time with one another before another orgasm is violently torn from her.

* * *

Sara has to act fast and rectify the situation as quickly as possible. It’s only been three days and Michele has asked her to do it again that way four times. He always cites the same reasons, that he loves all of her, and it feels good, and that they don’t have to worry about pregnancy.

She’s been able to talk her way out of it so far. The first day she was sore, the second day she didn’t have time to plan for it, and the third day she sucked him off, which she only saves for when she really wants something out of him.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” Michele slides up behind her while she’s prepping dinner. He drags his half hard cock across her ass, and nibbles at her neck.

“Mickey,” she giggles. “You’re insatiable.”

“I can’t help myself. You’re so sexy.”

“Okay but,” she turns in Mickey’s grasp. He’s holding her too tightly, and their clothes wrinkle against her futile attempts to move. “I want to try it a little differently.”

“On your back.”

“Not really,” she turns off the stove, deeming dinner a lost cause.

“Standing?”

“Let me show you,” and she takes him by the hand and leads him into her bedroom. She goes to her dresser, and although she’s facing away from Michele, she knows that he’s probably drooling already. The top drawer is where she keeps her lingerie.

She digs around until she finds what she’s looking for. First, the black harness, and then the toy. Its bright blue in color, she read online somewhere that men get freaked out by hyper realistic ones. How pathetic.

She bought it anyway, because she did not want Michele to have the opportunity to say no. She certainly didn’t have it.

She takes the toy into her hand. It’s about the same size and thickness as Michele’s own cock. Which is to say, it’s really big.

“Sara?” Michele’s voice is shaky. “What is that?”

“Oh, I said I wanted to do it differently. You liked it so much, I wanted to try it with you.”

“Yeah, but um.” Michele fidgets awkwardly. He grinds his sock toed foot into the carpet, and bites his lip, and reuses to make eye contact with her. “It’s different.”

“Why? You might actually like it? At least you have something in there to make it feel good.”

“Don’t be like that. You liked it.”

“Mickey,” she places a hand on his arm. “I’ll make it good for you.” She rocks upward onto the balls of her feet to kiss Michele. She laps at his mouth only to pull away. “I promise,” she purrs spitting his own words back at him.

“I don’t want to.”

* * *

It takes seconds to have Michele stripped down and naked on her bed. Begrudgingly, she uses the flavored lubricant. She cared enough to get new toys to torment Mickey with. She didn’t care enough to buy new lube.

Michele is bare on the bed. “Touch yourself,” she orders while she steps into the harness and tugs at the straps. “Touch yourself thinking about how I’m going to use this on you, and you’re going to like it.”

“Sara,” he groans. His hand is barely wrapped around his cock, and he’s already half hard. Maybe, just maybe she understands now. Why he kept going despite her complaints.

Sara adjusts the straps, and then takes a moment to admire herself. She wriggles about, and watches the toy bounce in the harness. She tests the weight of it in her hand. Although nothing could ever compare to the weight and the heat of her brother’s cock, it was the closest thing she was ever going to get. 

“Like what you see?” She asks with a giggle.

“Yeah,” he admits. A deep plum colored blush spreads across his face.

“You’re gonna um, get me ready first. Right?”

“I promised you. Didn’t I?”

He nods yes.

Sara watches him jack himself off for a few moments. She watches him as he touches himself. It gives herself time to clear her head, and think things through. “Turn around.” She orders.

Michele complies.

She takes the red capped bottle into her hand. “Spread your cheeks little brother.”

Michele groans, and reaches behind himself to present himself to Sara.

Sara pours the pink viscous liquid out of the bottle. It splatters on his tailbone, on his toned muscles, and dribbles down to his hole. It’s so small. It’s so tight. She’s going to wreck him. Way worse than anything he did to her.

Sara tests the skin by poking at it lightly. Then, she plunges a finger in.

Michele whimpers at the simple contact.

“See how it feels?” She crooks her finger, and moves it around trying her best to mirror the way that Michele touched her. He makes more soft whimpering noises, before she slips in another.

Then, she plunges her fingers in and out.

Michele _groans_ low and guttural in a way that she’s never heard him do before. The noise is unfettered, uncontained by all the things that Michele feels that he _should_ be. “You like this?” her voice is a bit incredulous. She didn’t think her brother would warm up to this so fast.

“Do that thing again,” he begs. “Sara, please.”

She complies, dragging her fingers forward against his walls.

It clearly has an effect on him. As she keeps on, he’s sobbing, moaning, and saying all sorts of stupid things, “It’s like you’re caressing me on the inside Sara, oh-“

Sara pulls her fingers out quickly. Michele groans at the loss of contact. She’d wanted to put him through the same kind of shame and the same kind of terror that he’d put her through. Every second felt like she was being pushed forward into something unknown and degrading. Why the hell couldn’t she make him feel the same?

Sara snaps him up by the hips, and pushes the toy deep inside her brother’s ass.

“Ah, Sara slow down.”

There. Fucking finally.

“Does it hurt Michele?”

“Yes, Sara. Slow down.”

Sara pays him no mind. She snaps her hips forward, and then pulls all the way out and slams back in. Michele makes a series of noises. A sharp painful yelping noise, followed by another low groan, and then more soft sobbing noises are torn from Michele as she moves her body.

The fact that he _likes_ this too spurns her own, makes her pump her hips even faster.

In no time at all he’s jerking his cock and, and spilling against the mattress. She refuses to relent, even when he tells her, “Sara, I came.”

To which she simply responds, “I haven’t yet, Mickey.”  She drives the toy into his hole over, and over, and over again. At some point, she makes him turn over, so she can watch him cry from overstimulation and the fast snaps of her hips.

He comes again on his stomach.

She keeps going.

If she were a good sister, she’d reapply lube. She isn’t, so she doesn’t. She fucks him until he’s coming dry, his face is red from crying, and she’s exhausted from moving forward.

Yet and still, when she grabs the toy at the base and pulls out, he sobs at the feeling of being empty.

Sara grabs his thighs and pushes them forward so she can examine his hole. It’s gaping from her abuse, and doesn’t close right away. The skin is raw and red. He leaks the foul flavored lubricant, and Sara wonders how he would look if he had come dripping out of his ass.

No, how it _looks_ when he has come dripping out of his ass, because, “who do you do this with?”

“Hm?”  Michele asks still coming down from his multiple orgasms. He’d better not fall asleep. She’s sitting on his face until she’s come just as many times as he has.

“You took that way too easily. Who do you do this with Mickey,” she demands.

“No one, Sara. I love you. You’re the only one for me.”  Michele blinks at her with impossibly long lashes. His moth curls into a smile. His tongue pokes out between his mouth and he licks his own lips.

He always does that when he’s fucking lying. “If you get to fuck other people, do I get to fuck other people?”

“Sara, no!”

 


End file.
